Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. He has always plenty of evidence in reserve. Every moment or two he bent over his patient. She was very excited. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking.
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